


Hail To Thee, O Land Of Opportunity.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: The Westing Game - Ellen Raskin
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, LGBT Suicide, Queer Themes, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violet Westing, the night before her wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hail To Thee, O Land Of Opportunity.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the contrelamontre (Dreamwidth community) forty-five minute temperature challenge. The title is from the fourth section of the will.
> 
> Warning: (Canonical) character suicide.

It's colder than Violet had thought it would be.

She doesn't have any romantic notions of what she's doing. She knows exactly what she's doing and she knows it isn't romantic or heroic or brave. She knows it isn't a grand gesture of love, or devotion, or any great emotion that she will be remembered for long after. It's nothing like that. It's nothing at all.

And no matter what the town might gossip, it isn't an act of revenge against her parents. She'd written her mother a letter and left it for her. She doesn't want her mother to blame herself. It's not her fault.

This is Violet's fault. If she were a better daughter, if she hadn't been born wrong, none of this would happen. It never would have come to this.

If she were the daughter her mother wanted her to be, tomorrow she would walk down the aisle and marry him and be the politician's wife and be forever beautiful and pure of spirit and full of grace.

If she were the daughter her father wanted her to be, tomorrow she might even be marrying George. George understood her, as much as anyone ever really did, and she thinks she could have talked her father into letting her marry George. Convincing her mother would probably have been impossible, but her father could have done it. If Violet were the daughter her father wanted her to be, she could have arranged it. She could have convinced her father and convinced him to convince her mother, and tomorrow, she might be marrying George.

She doesn't know what kind of daughter would rather be marrying a woman than a man.

Violet bends down at the water's edge and dips her hand into the water again. It's cold. It's very, very cold.

Until last week, she hadn't been sure she could do it. She'd thought she'd could, had wanted to believe so hard that she could. She had told herself again and again that if she had to get married, a sham marriage to a corrupt politician might just be the way to do it. After he'd get caught, there would be a huge scandal. He probably would be an adulterer, too, and have a lot of women on the side. She could demand a divorce. She could get one. Her mother would never ask her to get married again, the scandal would still be too great and her mother would be too ashamed of having arranged the marriage in the first place. It would take a scandal and a divorce, but Violet could win. She could play her mother's game and she could win. A ruthless win, lacking in dignity and respect, but still a win.

She could win. She could be her father, she could manipulate this marriage until it all fell out the way she wanted it to happen. She could even call in the authorities herself. She could set up her own marital scandal, she could arrange her own fall from grace.

Until last week, she'd thought there was a chance she could do this. She had wanted so hard to believe that she could, that there was another way out of this.

If there was ever a time for honesty, she'd said to herself, it was now, when she was about to do something that could never be taken back and could only be taken apart by a long, arduous court battle and her husband going to jail.

George had said, "I don't understand. I love you."

He'd asked her to elope. She couldn't lie to him. She couldn't do to him what she could do to the man her mother wants her to marry. George is her friend and she won't hurt him.

"I don't love you," she'd said. "Not that way. You're a good friend, but I don't love you."

He hadn't understood. He'd thought she was simply protecting him, trying to push him away. She'd had to be harder to make him understand.

If there was one person who deserved to understand why she was really doing it, it was George.

"It's not you," she'd told him, gently, brutally. "It's men."

It had taken a moment, but then she had seen the precise instant when it had all clicked into place.

"I won't tell anyone," George had promised her, still thinking she was going to get married, still thinking she would live a lie, and that was when she had realized that she couldn't do it. She could never do it. She couldn't lie to George and she can't lie to herself: she has too much pride. She could never be the politician's wife, she could never smile all day and lie with every breath.

She could not live a lie, she had realized, and she had made her decision.

And it's cold here now, so cold. Violet shivers and then laughs at herself. If she goes through with this, no, _when_ she goes through with this, when she gets up the nerve to throw herself in and be pulled under and _drown_ (she can't use euphemisms, not here, not now. She can't lie to herself when she's about to _kill herself_), when she does this, maybe in three minutes or three hours, it's going to be a lot colder in the water than it is out of it.

She wonders if she'll freeze to death before she drowns. She wonders if she can tread water that long.

She wonders about currents.

Violet Westing puts the lantern down and slips out of her shoes and sits down to wait and watch the water. When it looks peaceful, when it looks seductive, then she will do it. She will take a running leap into the water and she will die here. No one can stop her. No one knows where she is.

In the morning, she knows, they will find her body. Her parents will call it an accident, a horrible accident, and that is how it will be reported. Her father has enough money to convince anyone of anything; he will have the coroner call it an accident, not a suicide. But they'll know. Everyone will know.

Violet Westing grew up here, they will say. They will say: she knew the strength of the river, she was too sensible to think a midnight swim was ever a good idea. They will say: she wasn't a flighty child, thrown to fits of romanticism and youthful dares and dangerous games. They will say: Violet Westing threw herself into the river and knew she would die. They will say: she knew she would die.

They will call it what it is: suicide.

Violet calls it: escape.

Once, Violet had dreamed of growing up to be a school teacher. But that had been before it all. She can't see any future for herself that would not be living a lie with every breath. And she can't do that.

It's not silly romanticism. She's thought about this constantly and that was what she had written to her mother. There's no blame here. It's not their fault. It's Violet's. If she were her mother, she could take a deep breath and live with the lie, the same way her mother has put up with so much from her father. If Violet had one ounce the strength her parents have, she would not be here on the river bank, considering the currents and absently rubbing her arms for warmth.

It's cold here. It's so cold. Violet feels it, but it doesn't feel real. It feels like a story being told to someone else.

She'll be that story. Tomorrow, she will be the horror story. She will be poor Violet, who slipped and fell into the river while on a midnight stroll. She will be poor Violet, who had a terrible, fatal accident.

She will be pitied Violet, who could not bear to marry a man she didn't love.

Violet doesn't care. She knows the truth and she likes those stories better. George knows the truth and he's promised to never tell. She thinks he'll keep that promise, if only because her father could have George's father ruined and run out of town if George ever whispered it to someone else.

For an hour, she sits there, listening to the water. She likes it. It's peaceful. And she likes this. She couldn't choose her future, but now she can. This is her choice and she's made it. She prefers it to the alternatives.

She can't lie to herself. Not anymore. And a choice between living a life of lies and not living at all isn't a choice at all. Not to Violet Westing. Her parents live within their lies every day, but she can't do that. She doesn't see any reason why she should. There's no life ahead of her but one of lies and she can't live like that. She doesn't see any reason why she should.

She's said her goodbyes. What's left now is waiting and living and breathing and taking it all in.

It's a beautiful night. It really is. She couldn't have picked a better time for this.

Tomorrow, the world will go on without her. Right now, she is in control. And she can see everything, and it's beautiful. This is beautiful. The water and the waves and the grass beneath her fingers.

The world is so beautiful.

It's five minutes past midnight when Violet Westing throws herself into the Westingtown river.


End file.
